


Stairway to Paradise: One Shot Collection

by RainFlame



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Blindness, Different genres for different oneshots, Family Fluff, Gen, Healing, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Psychological Trauma, Recovery, We’ll be emotionally all over the place
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-09
Updated: 2020-07-13
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:21:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24619768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RainFlame/pseuds/RainFlame
Summary: A collection of one shots revolving around "Stairway to Paradise."
Relationships: Alphonse Elric & Edward Elric, Edward Elric & Roy Mustang, Edward Elric/Winry Rockbell, Riza Hawkeye/Roy Mustang
Comments: 37
Kudos: 67





	1. Okay

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Stairway to Paradise](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/630877) by RainFlame. 



_**Timeline:** Takes place one year after Ed's mission up north. I highly recommend reading "Stairway to Paradise" before diving into this one._

* * *

Ed was doing better.

A _lot_ better.

It was coming up on a year since he'd been captured, tortured, and blinded on his mission to the North. It had been a long year for him, in some ways even longer than his recovery after losing his limbs and the subsequent automail surgery and rehab that followed.

Apparently, it was difficult to just walk off that sort of trauma.

With Al and Mustang's help, and the guidance of a proper therapist, Ed was able to regain some control over himself. The panic attacks were fewer and less debilitating, and he hadn't had a proper flashback in weeks. He'd always been susceptible to nightmares, and they still plagued him almost nightly, but he'd long since decided that was a reasonable punishment for what he'd done to Alphonse.

Physically, he was healing too. He was back to a reasonably healthy weight, though he could hardly look at meat anymore. Mustang had obligingly stopped preparing it altogether, and at home they were both vegetarians proper.

His eyes, as much as his mind, were slow to heal, and he was still dealing with the aftermath. For one, it didn't take very long for them to dry out. He could never leave home without his eyedrops, lest he spend the rest of the day in pain, and they always ached after reading too much. Alphonse was quick to remind him to take a break every half hour or so, or would pause in his own studies to read aloud to him. Direct sunlight could also cause what Ed deemed to be an unreasonable amount of pain after more than a few minutes, but Mustang had procured a set of tinted glasses for him to wear when it got too much for him. He likened it to dealing with automail; not a lot of fun, but it gave him more of his independence back and ultimately, would be just another step toward getting his brother's body back.

All in all, Ed was happy to once again be moving forward. He had finally been reinstated and cleared for duty just the week before, and Mustang promised Ed a mission that would get him close to a lead on the Philosopher's Stone that he was anxious to check into.

Things were finally looking up. Things were finally returning back to normal, or as normal as Ed's life got anyway.

"Remember," Mustang reminded as they ascended the marble steps of Central Command, "finish your paperwork this week, or there won't be any mission next week."

Ed suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. "Sure, Mustang." If Al hurried through his trip to the library, maybe he'd be back in time to give Ed a hand. He hated paperwork probably just as much as Mustang did.

"And remember that any more paper airplanes you and Havoc throw my way will be set on fire and sent back," he warned pleasantly, saluting the MP at the door before they entered the building.

Ed offered a sloppy salute of his own, tucking his sunglasses into his coat pocket and following Mustang—his _dad—_ inside.

Now that Mustang was officially his father, Ed had expected something to change between them, and it did. Whether it was because of the title or just by what the older man had helped him through, Mustang regarded Ed and Al differently. There was a softness in his gaze when he looked at them that hadn't been there before, an underlying warmth to his voice when they spoke. Ed wanted to hate it, but he found that he _couldn't_. He couldn't hate something that he knew he had craved for so long to receive from his own father. He couldn't reject it now that Mustang was giving it to him freely, no strings attached.

It was nice, and Ed didn't even mind too much when Mustang did dumb dad stuff like asking them to call if he and Al would be home late from the library.

Yes, things were finally starting to look up.

So when he looked across the lobby and locked eyes with the Interrogator, it was entirely unexpected.

For a second, Ed's heart stopped cold in his chest, the world around grinding to a halt.

The Drachman stared back, mild surprise freezing his features a moment before his lips stretched into a dangerous smile. It was that same face Ed remembered from the basement; a thick black beard, and small, deep-set eyes that shined with cruel amusement as he looked Edward up and down, still managing to convey arrogance despite his hands cuffed behind his back and the prisoner's uniform he wore. He was too far away for conversation, and the four MPs pushed him along, heading to the sublevel holding cells, but Ed read the threat behind that gaze just as clearly as if he'd shouted.

Yes, Ed remembered those eyes.

He remembered knives shoved in between his ribs and electricity running up his shoulder port, almost drowning when they sprayed a heavy stream of water his way in the basement, filling his mouth and nose until he couldn't breathe.

He still couldn't breathe.

A hand touched his shoulder, and that was all It took for him to be out the front doors and running.

It didn't matter to where, because he just had to _run_. He had to move. He couldn't be anywhere near that man.

They weren't going to take him back there.

He ran almost blindly, his terror enough to make him fast but not careful. Ed pumped his legs, one metal one flesh, the wind beating his bangs around his face in encouragement. The streets were suddenly too crowded and too stifling, the sun too bright, the handful of passersby enough to feed his terror and make him feel watched and trapped, like the world was closing in on him.

He darted down a side alley, vaulting over a low fence and almost twisting his ankle in a pile of debris, but that hardly slowed him down. The manmade canyons carved between buildings were mercifully dark in the early morning, and more importantly, empty, but still he felt the need to keep running, to put as much distance between him and _him_ as possible.

He ran until he came to a dead end, and for a moment, the twelve-foot-high wall stunned him, his panicked mind taking a long few seconds to fathom how someone could have put a wall in front of him. He reflexively clapped his hands together to remove the obstruction, but his brain refused to summon the proper equation to put an opening in the brick and mortar. He clapped his hands again, then again, _then again_ , his panic rising every time his mind failed him, heart hammering against his chest with unnatural intensity, like it would pound a hole in his ribcage before he made a hole in the wall.

How could he get away like this? They would find him for sure.

He couldn't go back. He couldn't do that again.

Some distant part of him knew he wasn't making sense, but something far more pressing and primal insisted that he had to move, move, _move._

He grasped at the wall, slick metal fingers slipping instantly, but his flesh hand held tight against the brick as he started to climb, almost one-handedly.

A strong arm looped around his waist.

"Get away! _Get away from me,"_ he spat, kicking and snarling.

_He would not go back._

"Edward," a winded but calm voice murmured in his ear.

A familiar voice. One that had guided him through the dark for months, patient and coaxing, calm and solid.

He knew that voice, and the fight went out of him instantly.

He sagged in Mustang's grip, releasing the wall in favor of gripping the colonel's arm that still held Ed tight against his chest, the familiar scent of earth and mesquite soothing away some of the mindless fear that gripped his heart and squeezed the air from his lungs.

Safe. Mustang was here, he was safe.

Mustang released him enough to let him twist, turning to embrace his father fully, clinging to his uniform like a scared child, but he trusted Mustang too much to be embarrassed by it at the moment. Mustang wrapped his arms tighter around him, firm and solid, a shield from the world and its horrors.

He burrowed into the older man's chest, both of their hearts hammering into one another, both breathing heavily. The terror was fading, finally releasing its icy claws from his mind, allowing him the space to think.

The Interrogator was here. The one that was directly responsible for most of his suffering in the North, for the months of fear and agony after, for stealing his sight and his dignity. He was here, in Central, clearly in custody but only in a physical sense. He still very much had the freedom to haunt Ed, to chase him through the streets with a smile alone.

Ed's stomach twisted as he wrapped his hands tighter in Mustang's uniform, turning his head to stare at the brick building engulfing them in shadow. His tired eyes traced a dark, moldy stain clinging to wall from the roof to the rusted trash bin below.

"He's here," he whispered.

Mustang panted and held him, a silence passing before he said, "I know."

Ed's heart sank, dropping into his stomach. "You knew?"

"I should have told you. I . . . I didn't think your paths would cross. You weren't supposed to ever know he was here."

It took Ed a second to find his voice. "Why?"

It took Mustang longer. "He . . . he was put on trial up in North City, and he's here for his execution," Mustang said, his voice heavy with both concern and uncertainty, like he wasn't sure how Ed would react.

Ed wasn't even sure how he would react, how he _should_ react. Was he supposed to be relieved that they caught him? Relieved that he went on trail, and that justice was being served? Relieved that he wouldn't live to hurt anyone else ever again? Was he mad that Mustang hadn't told him?

Ed firmly believed that the loss of a human life was no small thing, Ed wished he had never seen that man in the lobby—or in his life, really—, but at the same time he wasn't sure how he felt about him being in Central to die. Ed wasn't under any delusions that the Interrogator was a good man, but did his deeds justify his death? At what point was your life a fair price to pay for your actions?

And not for the first time, Ed cursed his own moral code and its ambiguity. It seemed that there was very little in this world that was black and white.

"What are you thinking, Ed?" Mustang asked, his voice suddenly loud in the quietness of the alley, and Ed flinched.

It was amazing how after months of therapy and _dealing_ with it, just one look at one of his former captors across a crowded room was enough to bring back a whole host of unwanted behaviors, like the flinching and the panic attacks and the mindless need to escape. He missed being unafraid to face the world head-on, or at least being brash enough to put his fear on the backburner while his ego and his arrogance took care of the rest.

He only fought it for a moment before allowing his flesh hand to wrap around his own throat, the gesture soothing, letting him breathe just a bit easier.

Mustang, at least, had the decency to not comment. He only lifted one hand to put on top of Ed's head, stroking his hair the way he did when he woke up screaming in the night, when Al was downstairs and Mustang got there first.

"I don't know what to think," he finally admitted. "When . . . when will he be executed?"

"Tomorrow at 0800 hours." He said it automatically, like it was a date he'd been looking forward to, had marked on his calendar like an appointment to keep.

"I want to meet with him." The words were out of his mouth before he had a chance to think about them.

Mustang stiffened, his breathing pausing a full beat before resuming. "Ed . . . I don't think . . . I don't think that's a good idea."

"I have to. I need to." Even as he said it, his body started to shake, trembling with a fear that had been ironed into his bones over the course of months, and months of therapy wasn't enough to rid himself of it.

But maybe this was.

"Why?" To the untrained ear, Mustang sounded perplexed, but Ed had spent months with only that voice for company, learning to read the older man by sound alone. He heard the desperation underneath, his own fear echoed back to him.

Ed couldn't stop shaking, the haunting, nameless face of the Interrogator filling the space behind his eyelids every time he closed his eyes. "I need to," he repeated, his voice shaking right along with the rest of him. He couldn't explain, he couldn't even explain it to himself.

He needed a name. He needed one from _him_.

"We'll talk about it tonight, okay? We'll talk about it at dinner."

Ed shook his head against the older man's chest, the motion smearing moisture across his face, but he wasn't sure if it was sweat or tears. "No, now. I need to do this now."

He knew by the silence that Mustang was trying to formulate some sort of excuse, some reason that they should wait or that Ed shouldn't do this at all. Ed didn't give him the chance, though. He waited there a few more moments, letting Mustang hold him for just a bit longer, then pulled back, wiping his face with a red sleeve. He ran his hand through his hair, combing his bangs into place once more in an attempt to "fix" himself.

Mustang looked down at him, his onyx eyes as unreadable as Ed had ever seen them. Ed was much better at reading the man's voice than his expression anymore. He sighed, exhaling heavily through his nose, and Ed thought he could hear resignation there. "Why, Ed?" he asked quietly. "What's that going to prove?"

"That I'm not a coward?" he asked. "Closure? I don't know, I can't explain it, I just need to, okay?"

Mustang closed the distance between them, placing his hands on Ed's shoulders and bending down to his eyelevel. It wasn't patronizing, he was looking for something in Ed's eyes. "You are no coward, Ed," he said finally. "You are the strongest brat I know. I don't understand why you need this, but you won't be alone." Ed wasn't sure if he meant in the room or more in an emotionally supportive way, but he supposed it didn't matter. He knew Mustang would be there. He'd already proven that much.

"Thanks, Mustang," Ed said, wiping his face again.

Mustang gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze, then released him, straightening his uniform. "Any time," he said, soft and resigned, and gestured down the alleyway. "Shall we?"

Ed squared his shoulders, righting his coat on his frame like the illusion of having it together would result in him feeling like he had it together. "Let's go."

XxXxX

The holding area was a dark hallway in a sublevel of Central Command, lined by twelve cells and lit only by a bare bulb dangling from the ceiling in the middle of the walkway. It was almost dim enough to cause him eyestrain, but not quite enough to render invisible a few rust-colored stains on the concrete floor. It smelled a lot like a mixture between despair and fear, things that Ed didn't know had a scent until he'd lost his eyesight, and the air had a dangerous quality to it that made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.

The iron door fell shut behind him, and it took every fiber of his self-control not to turn tail and run. He looked back over his shoulder, seeing Mustang's pale face through the small pane of thick glass, his dark eyes watching and concerned. He waited right outside as promised, ready to come if Ed called, but Ed wanted to do this alone. He needed to, and he took a deep breath.

He was alone with the Interrogator.

Both feet felt like lead as he trudged down the hall, passing ten empty cells before he finally got to the end of the corridor. There in the cell to his left sat a man on a cot, and Ed recognized the form of him, the feel of him, even in the darkness. Being in his presence was as familiar as it was unwelcomed, and his base instincts were screaming at him to run, to move, to _get away_ , but he held his ground, staring into the dimness even as the tide of abject dread threaten to swallow him whole.

A low, quiet chuckle rolled from the dark corner on the other side of the iron bars, a sound that still Ed heard in his nightmares; oily and thick and terrible. Ice flooded his veins, and since he wasn't fighting or running, his body froze, like that was a viable defense.

"So we meet again, Major," the Interrogator said, his accent just as thin as Ed remembered, his voice all too familiar and filled with a cruel sort of amusement. "You look much better than you did when I last saw you."

Ed was suddenly aware of the ringing in his ears, his tongue sticking to the dry roof of his mouth. He swallowed thickly, taking a deep breath in an attempt to sooth his pounding heart. He breathed again and again, wrapping his shaking hands in the material of his coat, fingers itching to reach up and grab his own throat before he trapped them in his pockets.

"I assume you came to say something?" the man asked, his small dark eyes glittering in the shadows, but Ed couldn't tell what he was thinking. He never could. "I'm sure you're here to ask me why, is that right? Why I did this to you? Are you expecting some sort of apology from me, Major?"

Ed allowed himself a few more breaths before he finally whispered, "What's your name?"

"Ah." The Drachman leaned forward, supporting himself with his elbows on his knees, half his face sliding into the light to reveal a sharp smile underneath that beard. "My name? And what would my name give you?"

"Nothing," Ed responded. "It will give me nothing." Ed wasn't a fool. The man's name wouldn't give him closure or comfort or anything of the like.

But Teacher had taught him that names had power. Giving something a name took away some of its strength, weakening its psychological hold on you. The Interrogator was Ed's boogeyman, the creature that haunted him, and a name would lend some humanity to a figure that was more demon in his mind.

The man regarded Ed like an animal sizing up another. "Grigorii," he finally said. "And yours?"

Ed had never told him his name. He'd never told any of them his name, but Equivalent Exchange demanded an answer of him.

"Edward."

"Edward," the Interrogator, _Grigorii_ , repeated. Ed hated the way his name sounded on his lips. "Well then, _Edward_. Is that all you wanted from me?"

Ed thought a moment. "Yes."

"Just my name?"

Ed nodded, turning to leave. "Just your name. Thanks, Grigorii."

"I am not sorry, Edward."

Ed stopped.

"There is not a thing I did to you that I regret." His tone was blasé, as if discussing tea, but there was an undercurrent of pleasure there. He was enjoying this, enjoying Ed's fear, preying on it as he always had. "Even if my country were not on the line, I _enjoyed_ taking you apart. Your screams were music to my ears, Edward. And do you want to know something else? If it were not for these bars, I would gladly take your sight all over again. Maybe this time with knives. The knives were always your favorite, Edward."

Ed took a long second to not think about anything, lest the terror overtake him.

"Are you afraid, boy?"

_Are you afraid, boy?_

Whispers of memories rustled in the back of his mind like dead leaves, threatening to bury him if he considered them long enough. He reminded himself that he'd been prepared for this, but how could anyone prepare for this?

He was losing it.

He bit his lip and looked up, toward the door. Onyx eyes stared back at him through the window, Mustang's face creased with worry, but just the sight of his adoptive father outside, where he promised he'd wait, was enough to take the edge from his building terror. He looked ready to charge in, a hand reaching for the door handle, but Ed jerked his head to the side once.

Grigorii was saying something, but Ed wasn't listening.

He held Mustang's gaze and he breathed.

When he felt more in control, he turned back, searching Grigorii's eyes for a trace of regret, for any proof that he was lying, and he realized that he wasn't looking at someone that was human. For what was humanity, but the ability to care? Name or no, Grigorii was a demon through and through.

Grigorii smiled, but there was nothing warm in it. "How does that make you feel, little alchemist?"

Ed glanced back at Mustang, his resolve solidifying. "Sad," Ed answered truthfully. "Goodbye, Grigorii."

The smile slid off of his face, the cool control Ed had only seen slip once in his time over the border slipping a second time, and his cold eyes flared with a manic fury. Icy fear curled in Ed's gut, but he didn't run. Mustang was right there; he didn't have to run. "You cannot escape me, Edward!"

Ed nodded stiffly and began the walk back, out of the holding area, back to the people that mattered.

"Even though I die tomorrow, I will live on. Everything I am and everything I've done will follow you into your grave!"

Mustang opened the door before he got there, sending a withering glare over Ed's head, back toward Grigorii and his snarling threats he was still spewing like bile. Ed was so relieved when the door shut behind him and cut off the man's echoing voice that he collapsed against the wall, his shaking legs unable to hold him any longer. He shut his throbbing eyes and tried to get himself together, his hand wresting free of his pocket to wrap around his throat.

He did it.

There was no one else in the small entryway; Mustang had dismissed the guards until they were done here, so Ed felt a lot more comfortable having a small breakdown. With his free automail hand, he held his legs close to him, curling in on himself as he shook.

Mustang slid down the concrete wall beside him, close enough that their sides touched. He put an arm around Ed's shoulder and Ed leaned into the half-embrace appreciatively. He shut his eyes, inhaling Mustang's mesquite-and-earth scent and tried not to cry. Ed wasn't sure when exactly he had become so comfortable with physical contact from anyone but Al, or when Mustang had become so comfortable offering it, but his months spent blind seemed to have altered some of their preferences.

"Did you find what you were looking for?" Mustang asked when most of Ed's trembling had subsided, his low baritone voice vibrating under Ed's ear.

"I think . . ." he whispered. "I think I did. His name is Grigorii."

"And that helps?"

Ed bit his lip. "I think it does."

"Then I'm glad you did it," he said, stroking Ed's hair back with a single hand. "Don't think this gets you out of your paperwork, though."

Ed gave a half-hearted laugh that choked a bit at the end. "You're a real jerk, Mustang."

"I hear it's part of my charm." Mustang pressed his hand to the side of Ed's face, tucking his head under his jaw in a one-armed embrace. "Are you okay?"

"No. But I will be."

Mustang made a humming sound deep in his throat. "Guess that's good enough for now."

Ed shuddered once more, then pulled away, tired of feeling weak and more than ready to get out of there. Mustang released him easily, then got to his feet with a groan.

"Old age is rough, huh?" Ed asked, accepting the hand Mustang offered and allowing the colonel to hoist him to his feet.

Mustang didn't bat an eye. "Not as rough as the pile of requisition forms you get to complete before lunch."

Ed rolled his eyes. "Remind me to ask Hawkeye to shoot you."

"She likes me too much for that."

"Wanna bet? You're two hours late reporting in."

Some of the color drained from Mustang's face as he whipped out his pocket watch, observing the time with a curse. "You're right, she's going to shoot me. Come on," he said, opening the door for Ed.

Ed took a steadying breath.

Then, he stepped out into the hallway, heading up into the building, up to the offices where his friends were waiting on him. Mustang fell into step beside him like he belonged there, strong and steady.

Yeah, Ed was doing better.

And with the help of his family and friends, someday he would be okay.


	2. The Talk

_Timeline: Takes place about two years after StP ends._

_Genre: Humor_

_Summary: The team tries to make sure there are no gaps in the Elric brother's education._

* * *

"You know," Havoc began, depositing a couple of files on Roy's desk. "Ed's getting older. Al, too,"

Roy looked up from his work with a frown, suspicion itching in the corner of his mind. Something about the other man's tone told him he was stepping into a minefield and caution was due. "Yes," he agreed slowly. "They are. What's your point?"

Havoc shrugged, the picture of casual as he repositioned his unlit cigarette with a pair of slim fingers. "Well, me and the others were just noticing that Ed and his mechanic were getting pretty cozy on the couch the other day. Since you're his father and all, we just wanted to make sure you'd had the _talk_ with him."

Roy's eyes narrowed. What on earth? "The _talk?"_

"You know," Havoc made a fluttering motion with his hand. "The birds and the bees."

Roy's pen cracked in his hand.

_"Excuse me?"_

Roy could just make out the glimmer of pleasure shining behind the matter-of-fact tilt of Havoc's eyebrows. "We just thought it'd be a good idea if the boys knew that babies aren't dropped off on doorsteps by storks," he said with a shrug.

About six different thoughts barreled through Roy's mind at once, but the loudest was screaming that _absolutely not, no_. He would feed, house, and clothe them. He would discuss combat and battle and murder, but he would not be discussing "the birds and the bees" with Edward and Alphonse Elric.

"Havoc," Roy snarled lowly, dangerously. "I would rather set you on fire than entertain this line of thought any further." He made a show of reaching into his desk and pulling out a single white glove.

It was Havoc's turn to blanch. He backed up a step, hands raised in a placating gesture that did not placate anything. "Just think about it! It's your responsibility, after all—"

_"Out."_

Havoc barely made it to the door before a pillar of flame launched across the room, licking his heels as he slammed it shut behind him.

Roy tried really hard to put the matter from his mind after that. How old were kids supposed to be before stuff like that came up? Surely this could wait until they were about twenty or so. Maybe he could ask that old woman Pinako to mention it to them the next time they went to Resembool . . .

Roy wasn't really given "the talk" when he was younger. His education had come from Riza's own father when he noted that the two of them were getting closer, and even then, all he had said on the matter was, "Either marry her or keep your hands to yourself."

That seemed like solid advice. It had stuck with him for years, so clearly it had made an impression—though admittedly it could have been the meat cleaver Master Hawkeye was polishing when he brought up the conversation . . . hard to say.

After work, he found himself perusing the children and family section of a nearby bookstore, hoping for some guidance by someone more qualified than he, but all he found were books written for more traditional families. He was looking for something a bit more specific to his situation, like "A Guide to The Talk; for single adoptive fathers of traumatized teenage boys," but no such book manifested, and he eventually headed home with a couple of selections on human reproduction. Maybe if he left them on the coffee table the problem would sort itself out.

When the brothers got home from the library that night, they immediately buried Roy's strategically placed books under a pile of their own and after dinner, sat down to read about the conversion of matter.

They didn't even _notice_ the books.

Roy swallowed a mouthful of dread, and for the millionth time, he wished Hughes was here. He'd know how to do this stuff.

And for the billionth time, Roy cursed the boys' real father, because if the lowlife had never left, Ed and Al probably wouldn't be in this situation in the first place. They would probably still be in Resembool, living in the same house Roy had found that _thing_. They would have never tried to resurrect their mother, and they would have been devastated when she died, but with their father for support they would have been able to be kids, running through fields and climbing trees, playing in the woods and harassing neighbors.

Not losing body and limb, joining the military, being tortured and blinded and now having to deal with their lousy commanding officer for a father.

They almost died on a bi-monthly basis, and he was afraid to have a conversation with them? It was almost comical. And yet . . .

How did one even broach the subject in a situation like this?

With a heavy sigh, Roy sat down in the armchair across from the two boys. They were seated on the couch, Al hunched over a thick book and Ed curled up with his red coat halfway in his brother's lap, listening as Al read something aloud. Ed's newly healed eyes noticed the movement immediately, his body tensing before he seemed to realize it was just Roy and not a threat. After that, no one seemed to pay Roy any mind.

Roy cleared his throat.

Al glanced up. "Oh, sorry!" He closed the book, leaving one leather finger in between the pages to mark their place.

Ed turned his head to squint at Roy, still reclining against his little brother's leg like it was a pillow and not cold steel. "What's up?"

Oh boy.

"Um . . . listen," he began, gripping his slacks at the knees. Did he sound nervous? "Have either of you boys had someone talk to you about, uh . . . reproduction?"

Well, this was off to a fantastic start. One sentence in and he'd already made it weird.

Ed and Al both exchanged a look. Al was much harder to read, but Ed's expression settled somewhere between uncertainty and horror. "Reproduction?" he asked like he knew the question was loaded. He sat up, maybe getting ready to run, Roy wasn't sure.

Roy leaned back in his chair and hoped it broadcasted nonchalance and not his own desperate desire to flee. "Yeah, like . . . you know . . . how babies happen?"

Alphonse glanced uncertainly at his brother. Ed's eyes narrowed. "Mustang—"

"Look, the team was just worried about—"

"About _what!"_ It was more an agitated curse than a question.

Roy wished the floor would split open and swallow him. It didn't, so he kept going with as much dignity as possible, like a man to the gallows. "I know you and Miss Rockbell are close—"

Ed made a choking sound.

"—and sometimes," he continued, rubbing the back of his neck, "hormones can get the best of you and before you know it—"

"Finish that sentence, Mustang, and I will kill you where you stand."

"Look, just don't go doing any . . . special kind of hugs—"

Ed shot to his feet with a half-strangled cry, raising a book in his metal hand like he might hurl it across the room. _"Mustang!"_

"Brother, what is he talking about?" Al asked, his innocent voice probably the only thing that saved Roy from an automail bludgeoning.

Ed turned his wide, traumatized eyes to his brother. "Al, listen to me. Mustang has completely lost it. He's going through some stuff. Probably senility. He doesn't know what he's saying."

Roy opened his mouth to protest, but Ed pointed an automail finger his way before he could utter a syllable, the book still dangling threateningly between them. "Not a word!" He turned back to his little brother. "He's trying to have the sex talk with us in the most convoluted, awkward way imaginable. Let's both do him a favor and pretend this never happened."

Al nodded then looked at Roy, and . . . was that amusement in those soulfire eyes? "Sorry Roy, we've known about sex since we were nine and ten."

Roy blinked.

"I'm sorry, what?"

Ed was about four different shades of red. "It came up in some of our anatomy textbooks. And you're a _scientist_ , for crying out loud! Call it sex!" He crossed his arms and slumped down next to Al, clutching the book to his chest like a shield. "A _special kind of hug_ ," he scoffed.

Roy couldn't decide if he was relieved that they already knew or horrified. Maybe a little of both.

Okay, well, as long as he made his point. It was his job as a father to lay down some rules and some sage wisdom, right? One more bit of advice to make Master Hawkeye proud: "Well, in regard to Miss Rockbell, either marry her or keep your hands to yourself and you should be—"

_Thunk._

XxXxX

No one said a word when Colonel Roy Mustang showed up for work the next morning, a rectangular bruise suspiciously shaped like the spine of a book staining the skin just above his right eye.

No one asked for an update on the Elric brother's knowledge of "the birds and the bees."

But Roy did see several wads of cenz trade hands when they thought he wasn't looking. He saw the smug grin Havoc shot Breda, Falman's eyeroll, the smile Fuery smothered into his hand.

And no one said a word when Havoc emerged from Roy's office later that afternoon, two smoldering smudges where his blond eyebrows used to be, a few cenz lighter, and with the promise to, in the future, keep all parenting advice to himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I debated back and forth on whether or not to include this in this series, because StP is not really known for it's outright humor, but I decided to lump it in here anyway because it's in the same universe. Some hilarious individual asked for this on Tumblr, and I could not resist :'D The concept was too amusing to pass up. Thanks to firewood-figs for her help with some editing and talking me off a ledge xD
> 
> I cannot take the credit for "special kind of hug," because I totally swiped that from Elf the Musical. That line always killed me xD 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed! Maybe it'll be more angsty next time :'D Side note: I start work on Wednesday, so I hope my creativity survives. Wish me luck xD
> 
> God Bless,  
> -RainFlame

**Author's Note:**

> So I know I promised some StP one-shots/spinoffs like, five years ago. Here's the first xD They will not necessarily be related or chronological, and some of them may even follow an alternate timeline. These won't be updated regularly, just as inspiration strikes and when I need to write an StP-related something or other. I've got about three more in the "sketched out three paragraphs" phase, but I'm gonna get back to DOA and SSB for a bit :'D
> 
> An anonymous individual on Tumblr kind of sparked my muse on this one, so I went for broke. I should probably have spent more time tweaking this, but I've been in edit-mode for two days, so I'm done xD
> 
> Were there easier ways for Ed to get Grigorii's name? Yes. But Ed really needed that facing-your-fears moment c:
> 
> Hope you enjoyed! Drop a review if you have the time, and I'll see you next time!
> 
> God Bless,  
> -RainFlame


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